


Farewell Earthes Blisse

by MollyC



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 2014, Angst, Bad gun safety, Contemplation of Suicide, Croatoan, End!verse, Implied Castiel/Dean Winchester, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-10 13:28:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1160241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MollyC/pseuds/MollyC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's only the two of them on the supply run, so naturally things go bad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Farewell Earthes Blisse

**Author's Note:**

> The problem ended up being that it was just the two of them.  The camp was filling up slowly, but they had all of six competent guns; Bobby wasn’t mobile enough for supply runs and neither was Risa till her ankle healed, and Dean didn’t want to leave the camp with no one who could get around so Smitty and Eric stayed, and that left Cas and him.

It wasn’t that he had a problem with working with Cas.  Cas was a pretty great hunting partner as long as you didn’t expect him to talk to people; he was death with a knife and had fantastic aim once Dean taught him how guns worked, and he knew lore like no one Dean had ever met.  But when you're dealing with the end of the world, only two guys isn’t safe.  Especially not when the two of you get jumped in the middle of an abandoned drug store by a whole mess of fast zombies.

One of the kids in camp had started calling them croats, and Dean was pretty sure that one was gonna stick.  It was easy to shout.

They’d had about ten seconds’ warning, just long enough to drop what they were carrying and pull guns--Cas’s ran empty and Dean made another mental note to get him something with a bigger magazine--and they’d made it out the back door of the place with enough of a lead to shove a Dumpster into place as a barricade, but it had made noise, and these croats were just on the ball enough to have left a couple scouts by the battered pickup they’d brought on the supply run.  So Dean and Cas were running through a town neither of them knew, with one gun between them and a whole pack on their tail.  

It kinda blew Dean’s mind how fast some places had emptied out.  There was still radio and broadcast TV, and it was obvious that the government still thought it was in charge in at least some spots  (Dean didn’t want to _think_ about what it was like in Chicago, which had been the first big city Croatoan hit), but more and more there were small towns, and even medium-to-large ones, that had just dried up and blown away.  Which was convenient when you needed supplies, at least.  They weren’t even in any immediate danger of running out of places in easy driving distance of the camp.

But just then, Dean would have traded a lot of easy supply sources for one local with a shotgun.  Still, the running away was going pretty well until they rounded a corner and slammed into a lone croat.  Dean took the hit and went down, dazed by the impact; she recovered faster and lunged for him, snarling.  He scrabbled for his gun, trying not to think about what was going to happen when he made a loud noise, but before he could draw it Cas was between them, his hunting knife in his hand.

The day’s overcast light gleamed on the blade as Cas swung hard for the croat.  She dodged it by inches and spun to face the threat.  For a second there was equilibrium as Dean rolled out of the way of their feet, and then the croat attacked.  She barrelled straight into Cas, and didn’t knock the knife away so much as grab it with her bare hand.  It must have hurt like hell but she didn’t seem to care, and she used her weight to knock Cas over.  Dean cursed and yanked his gun free as Cas went down with the croat on top of him, her pale face hidden by a fall of grimy hair.  He wrenched at the hilt of his knife and he and the croat both lost their grips as they hit the ground.  The knife went ringing away across the asphalt.

It took Dean precious seconds to get a clear shot, seconds in which Cas and the croat wrestled.  Finally Cas threw the croat to the side, following her to pin her with his body.  As soon as she stopped rolling Dean fired, catching her over her left eye.  She jerked and went still.

“Get your knife,” Dean said.  “We gotta get back to the truck.”

* * *

 

It took them maybe twenty minutes to get back to the store they’d been looting, and about twenty seconds to realize the croats had their truck staked out.  There was a self-storage place about a block down, though, that had a good vantage point.  They sat against the wall side by side, a few feet from the window.

Dean was just about to heave a sigh of temporary relief when Cas shifted and said calmly, “Dean, we may have a problem.”

Dean rolled his head so he could see, to discover Cas looking down at a bloody hand.  “Fuck,” Dean said.  He tipped forward onto his knees so he could shuffle around.  “Damn it.  When did that happen?”

Cas had a tear in his shirt low on his left side, just above the waistband of his jeans, and there was blood staining the fabric around it.  Not a lot of blood, thank fuck for small favors, but Dean didn’t like the look of it.

“It must have been during the fight,” Cas said.  “I think she had a small knife.”

Dean bit back another curse and said, “Take your coat off, I gotta take a look.”  Cas sat forward, wincing, and started to shrug off the denim jacket he’d taken to wearing.  He claimed it was more practical than a long coat, though Dean had his suspicions.  “Why didn’t you say something before?” he asked.

“I didn’t notice it before,” Cas said.

“Doesn’t it hurt?”  If it was numb, that was bad, and worse because Dean didn’t know what it meant.

But Cas paused in easing out of the second arm of his jacket and gave Dean a look full of exasperation.  “Of course it hurts,” he said.  “Something always _hurts_ , ever since...something always hurts.”

Dean didn’t look away, but it was a close thing.  Cas had burned out his teleportation thing early on, rescuing Dean from some of Zachariah's goons, but he'd kept most of his mojo until...well, Dean wasn't clear on the details, but it boiled down to the angels being gone and the gates of Heaven closed, and now Cas had to sleep and eat and he couldn't get to his sword. He was pretty thoroughly mortal, as far as they could tell.

Dean shoved down the familiar pang of guilt and pushed up Cas’s shirt.  The wound didn’t look deep but it was still bleeding, freely if not fast.  It skimmed the line of Cas’s rib, and Dean was pretty sure that all it needed was some antibiotic cream and a bandage.  The problem was the blood.

Cas’s blood ran down in trickles, only slightly smeared by contact with his loose shirt.  But there was more blood, above and over the wound, where it couldn’t have been Cas’s.  Dean felt his lips tighten, remembering the damage the croat had done to her hand.  

She’d done it deliberately, so she could get her blood on him.   _In_ him.

“Dean?” Cas said.  He was craning his neck to look down at himself, but the wound was in an awkward spot.

“It doesn’t look too bad,” Dean said, trying not to let his voice roughen.  “I can’t do much with it here but all you need is a clean up and a band-aid.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Cas said sharply.

Dean couldn’t make himself meet Cas’s eyes, which was answer enough, and after a second Cas whispered, “Oh.”

Dean nodded.

There was a long silence.

“Give me your gun,” Cas said. “I’ll wait fifteen minutes.”

Dean goggled at him for a second.  “What?”

“You can’t be here, they’ll hear the shot, and pardon me if I don’t feel like cutting my own throat,” Cas said.  Dean wondered distantly when Cas had learned to be sarcastic, but he didn’t have time to really appreciate the effect.

“Shut the hell up,” Dean said.  He stripped off his own jacket and then his flannel shirt, Cas watching him silently.  “Lean forward again so I can wrap that up.”

“There isn’t any point,” Cas argued, even as he leaned.  “If you’re going to let me turn--”

“Who says you’re gonna?” Dean snapped.  He wound the shirt around itself and pressed the thick center to Cas’s side. "Can you see it on yourself?" Slowly, Cas shook his head. "There you go then."

Quietly, Cas said, “Everyone turns.”

“Sam didn’t,” Dean said, not wincing at the name, his eyes on the knot he was tying with the arms.  The shirt was a goner, but there was a whole world full of Wal Marts to pick from, these days.

“Sam was a special circumstance.”

“So’re you,” Dean said firmly.  “Now shut up and get some rest.  It’s not like we’re goin’ anywhere right now anyway.”

“Dean--”

“We’re not debating this, Cas.”

Cas opened his mouth, visibly thought better of it, and settled back against the wall again with a pained hiss.  “This is very illogical,” he said on a sigh.

Dean hitched himself around to lean on the other wall, the window over his head.  “What is?”  He didn’t make a Vulcan joke because he didn’t feel like spending fifteen minutes failing to explain Star Trek.

“Pain,” Cas replied.  “It’s a signaling mechanism, I understand that, but it doesn’t make sense that it continues after I’m aware of the injury.”

Dean shrugged and said, “A lot of this stuff just happened.  It doesn’t have to make sense.”

“I suppose so.”  Cas thought it over for a second.  “Did you know that a cat’s penis is sharply barbed along its shaft?  I know for a fact that the females were not consulted about that.”

Dean blinked at him.  Cas shrugged in turn and said, “It’s not just humans that don’t make sense.”

“Thanks for the tip,” Dean said.

* * *

 

The afternoon wore on and the croats kept not going away.  Dean forced himself not to check more often than every fifteen minutes, but it was tough, because Cas didn’t seem to be interested in conversation.  He just sat there, leaning on the wall with his eyes closed, barely even breathing.  He would grunt if Dean talked to him, but that was all.  

He didn’t look comfortable; he was paler than usual, and there was a sheen of sweat on his forehead.  That was bad--a low fever was the only symptom of Croatoan they’d managed to spot so far. Usually they relied on Cas's ability to see the infection.

But he wasn’t getting jumpy or agitated, and Dean let his attention focus on listening for movement from the croats until the middle of the third hour, when Cas said, “I think you have to stop waiting now.”

The light was failing steadily and Dean couldn’t see him well, but the sound of his voice was worrying; it was thin and weak and not much like Cas’s voice at all.  “What’s up?” he asked.

“I don’t feel normal,” Cas said.  “I’m turning.”

“Don’t be dumb,” Dean said automatically.  He shifted forward onto his knees until he could feel Cas’s forehead.  It was clammy.  Cas pried his eyes open and Dean ignored the stab of fear when it took him a second to start tracking.  “Get back,” Cas said, a little stronger.

“No,” Dean said, and moved to kneel over Cas.  “If you’re turning, I’m gonna be right here for it, so you better not be.”

“At least draw your gun,” Cas said.

“Fine,” Dean said.  He pulled his 1911 out and flicked a glance at it to make sure the safety was on.  Winding one hand into Cas’s shirt, he braced the gun on his collarbone, so Cas could feel the muzzle under his chin.  It didn’t make him look nervous, which Dean didn’t like at all.   “You gonna make me shoot you like this?  If you turn I’ll have to do it, so you stay with me, Cas.”

“Dean…” Cas said.  “Please, just...it’s OK, I’m not afraid.  But I don’t want to hurt you.”  Dean started to protest, but his train of thought was broken by a feeling he knew a little too well.  Where his knee was pressed to the floor, his jeans were soaking through.

Dean looked down to discover that Cas was sitting in a pool of blood.

“Jesus,” he said, and set his gun aside.  “You’re not turning, you’re bleeding out.”  He backed off and shoved Cas’s shirt up again, to reveal that the makeshift bandage was sopping, saturated enough to drip as he watched.  In the thickening shadows it was hard to tell how far the blood had spread, but it didn’t really matter.  “Fuck, Cas.  When were you gonna tell me about this?”

“About what?” Cas asked lazily, and rolled his head so that he could look down.  “Oh.”

“Yeah, _oh_ ,” Dean snapped.  “You’ve been bleeding this whole time.”  It wasn’t like this should’ve been a surprise; Cas regularly forgot to eat and had once, early in his career as a mostly-human, fallen asleep in the middle of a firefight because he’d been up for six days straight.  Dean should have known to keep a closer eye on him, even if the wound hadn’t looked bad.  The croat must have nicked something, god _damn_ it.

“Well, look on the bright side, maybe I’ll bleed out before I can turn,” Cas said, wrenching Dean’s attention back to the present.  

“And maybe you’re not turning at all, angel boy,” Dean said through gritted teeth.  “This isn’t Croatoan, this is fucking hypovolemic shock.”

Under other circumstances, the look Cas gave him for using the big word would have been hilarious, but Dean didn’t have time to laugh.  “Jesus, how did I miss this?” he muttered.  “OK.  Can you walk?”

That seemed to break through Cas’s haze.  His eyes narrowed.  “This isn’t a good idea,” he said.

“You don’t even know what the idea is yet,” Dean retorted.

“If it involves trying to fight our way to the truck, it’s not a good idea.  I might be able to walk, but I can’t fight.”

“You’re not going to,” Dean said grimly.  He picked up his gun and shoved it away so he’d have both hands free to help Cas up.

* * *

 They skulked, as quietly as Dean could manage--which wasn’t very; Cas’s natural grace had deserted him and he kept stumbling over tiny obstacles.  It took much longer than Dean liked to circle the block so they could come at the truck from a direction the croats weren’t expecting, and when he finally eased his head around a corner to check, Dean couldn’t believe his eyes.

“Goddamn,” he said.

From where he was propped on the wall, Cas said tiredly, “What?”

“They aren’t there,” Dean replied.  “Either they got tired of waiting or it’s some kind of trap.”

“I know which way I’d bet,” said Cas.

Dean agreed with him, but…”We don’t have time to stand around and find out.  We don’t go now, you’re not gonna make it back to camp.”

“Dean,” Cas began, but Dean didn’t want to listen to the words he knew Cas was going to say, so he overrode him.  

“Come on, we’re going,” he said, pulling Cas into the clumsy carry they were using.  Cas didn’t have the breath to walk and talk at the same time.

They staggered out into the open street like two drunks after last call, Dean taking most of Cas’s weight with an arm around his chest, high up under his arms to avoid the wound.  He had his gun and four bullets, which gave him two croats he could shoot, because he’d be damned if he was going to let the croats eat him or Cas alive.

The only saving grace was that it was full dark by then, and that was a mixed blessing; Dean felt less exposed, but he also couldn’t see very far.  They approached the truck from the passenger side, which was good because Dean didn’t want to try to navigate Cas around it.  Dean cast a glance into the covered bed; it didn’t look like the croats had screwed with the supplies they’d managed to load before the attack.  At least one thing was going right.  

He hauled the door open one-handed and bundled Cas into the passenger seat, careless of the blood on the upholstery.  Cas wasn’t being much help, and once Dean got him belted in he slumped back like someone had cut his strings.  

“This is remarkably unpleasant,” he said, sounding far-off and stoned.

Dean didn’t know what to say to that, so he just shut the door and started around the front of the truck.  

He was one step past the front passenger wheel when a hand closed around his ankle and yanked.  Dean yelped in surprise and lost his balance.  He managed to catch himself enough that he didn’t hit his head on the road surface, but the croat had let go of his ankle and he didn’t know where it was; he rolled away from the truck frantically, only distantly aware of Cas calling his name in alarm.

Dean got only a glimpse of the croat before it was on him, lunging from its hiding place under the truck and falling on him, blood dripping from deliberately bitten lips that were pulled into a manic grin. Dean rolled one more time, desperate to get control of the clinch.  As soon as its weight left him he shoved, propelling himself backwards to land hard on his ass.  The croat gathered itself for another leap and Dean grabbed his 1911 one last time.  The shot would bring the rest of the croats down on them, but it didn't matter; if the truck started they could drive over them and if it didn’t they were _utterly fucked_ anyway.

Time slowed to a crawl as Dean brought the gun out and up.  At point-blank range he could hardly miss, and he didn’t; the shot took the croat in the throat and it choked and collapsed.  Dean pulled his feet out of reach of its grasping hand and forced himself to stand rather than sit and pant like he wanted to.  When he was up he shot the croat again, in the forehead this time, and clicked the safety on.

Clumsy with blood loss, Cas had not managed to unfasten his seatbelt, and his eyes were wide as Dean hauled himself into the driver’s seat.

“Are you all right?” Cas demanded.

Dean pulled the door closed and paused, just for a second, hands on the wheel and head bent.  He breathed out.  “Yeah, I’m good,” he said, and reached for the ignition.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, that is the end. I know I'm a horrible person.
> 
> Many thanks to my beta, [Tennyo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Tennyo), and everyone tell [t0shi0](http://t0shi0.livejournal.com) how gorgeous the art is!
> 
> First person to identify the reference in the title gets a short written-to-order fic.


End file.
